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he sits in the chair across from me.

“you look healthy,” he says in a voice that is

almost disappointed.

“I’ve given up beer and I drink only

3 bottles of white German wine each night,”

I tell him.

“are you going to let your readers know

you’ve reformed?” he

asks. he walks to the refrigerator and opens

the door. “all these vitamins!”

“thiamine-hcl,” I say, “b-2, choline, b-6, folic

acid, zinc, e, b-12, niacin, calcium magnesium,

a-e complex, papa… and 3 bottles of white

German wine each night.”

“what’s this stuff in the jars on the sink?” he

asks.

“herbs,” I tell him, “goldenseal, sweet basil, alfalfa

mind, mu, lemongrass, rose hips, papaya, gotu kola, clover,

comfrey, fenugreek, sassafras and chamomile… and I drink only

spring water, mineral water and my 3 bottles of white German

wine.”

“are you going to tell your readers

about all this?”

he asks again.

“should I tell them?” I ask.

“should I tell them that I no longer

eat anything that walks on

4 legs?”

“that’s what I mean,” he says. “people think you are a

tough guy!”

“oh?” I say.

“and what about your image?” he asks. “people don’t expect

you to live like this.”

“I know,” I say, “I’ve lost my beer-gut. I’ve come down

from a size 44 to a size 38, and I’ve lost 31 pounds.”

“I mean,” he continues, “we all thought you were a man

walking carelessly and bravely to his death, foolishly but

with style, like Don Quixote and the windmills… all that.”

“we just won’t tell anybody,” I answer, “and maybe

we can save my

image or at least prolong it.”

“you’ll be turning to God next,” he says.

“my god,” I say, “is those 3 bottles of white German wine.”

“I’m disappointed in you,” he says.

“I still fuck,” I reply, “and I still play the horses and I

go to the boxing matches and I still love my daughter

and I even love my present girlfriend. not that much has

changed.”

“all right,” he says, “we’ll keep it quiet.

can you give me a ride back to my place?

my car is in the shop.”

“all right,” I say, “I also still drive my car.”

I lock the door and we walk up the street to where

I’m parked now.

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él se sienta en la silla a mi costado.

“te ves saludable,” dice con un tono que es

casi de desilusión.

“abandoné la cerveza y bebo sólo

3 botellas de vino blanco alemán cada noche,”

le digo.

“¿vas a dejar que tus lectores sepan

que te reformaste?”

pregunta. va a la heladera y abre

la puerta. “¡cuántas vitaminas!”

“tiamina-hcl,” digo, “b-2, colina, b-6, ácido

fólico, zinc, e, b-12, niacina, calcio magnesio,

complejo a-e, pp… y 3 botellas de vino

blanco alemán cada noche.”

“¿qué son esas cosas en frascos sobre la pileta?”

pregunta

“hierbas,” le digo, “hidrastis, albahaca dulce, germen

de alfalfa, mu, hierba de limón, equinacea, papaya, gotu kola, trébol,

consuelda, fenobreco, sasafrás y camomila… y bebo sólo

agua de manantial, agua mineral y mis 3 botellas de vino blanco

alemán.”

“¿les vas a contar sobre todo esto

a tus lectores?”

pregunta nuevamente.

“¿debo contarles?” pregunto.

“¿debo contarles que no como más

nada que camine en

4 patas?”

“¡eso es lo que quiero decir,” dice. “la gente cree que sos un

tipo duro!”

“¿oh?” digo.

“¿y qué pasará con tu imagen?” pregunta. “la gente no espera que

vivas de esta manera.”

“lo sé,” digo, “perdí mi panza de cerveza. me reduje

de un talle 44 a un 38, y perdí 14 kilos.”

“quiero decir,” continúa, “que todos nosotros pensamos que eras un hombre

que caminaba valientemente y sin cuidado hacia su muerte, tontamente pero

con estilo, como Don Quijote y los molinos de viento… esas cosas.”

“no se lo digamos a nadie,” respondo, “y quizás

podamos salvar mi

imagen o al menos prolongarla.”

“lo que falta es que empieces a creer en Dios,” dice.

“mi dios,” digo, “son esas 3 botellas de vino blanco alemán.”

“me desilusionás,” dice.

“sigo garchando,” respondo, “y sigo apostando a los caballos y

sigo yendo a las peleas de box y sigo amando a mi hija

y hasta amo a mi novia actual. nada de eso ha

cambiado.”

“está bien,” dice, “no levantemos la perdiz.

¿podrías llevarme a casa?

tengo el auto en el taller.”

“está bien,” digo, “también sigo manejando mi auto.”

cierro la puerta y caminamos hasta la calle donde

estaciono ahora.

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Charles Bukowski

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Traducción de Gisella Rodríguez Cid

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